Le Visiteur
by smilelikey0umeanit
Summary: Epilogue to Under The Bridge, could be read as a separate story. Sandra has relocated to Paris with Max, but an unexpected visitor brings news that could threaten her new life. Sandra/Max.
1. Dinner For Two?

_**Disclaimer: New Tricks isn't mine.**_

Le Visiteur

She sat down heavily on the old leather sofa in the living room, staring into the fire she'd just lit to warm the draughty French apartment. Max hated the cold. So did she, but she didn't complain about it as much as him. She'd been thinking a lot about their relationship recently. She'd always been dependent on him. From the moment they'd met, she'd relied on him to give her the comfort and strength that she'd need to rebuild her life. Even now, without him she'd be out of a job, not to mention homeless. Over the past few months, a fear had slowly infiltrated her mind- what would happen if they split up? She'd certainly have to move out, the apartment rightfully belonged to Max, but where would she go? She had no other friends here in France, or at least no friends as true as her boys.

Truth be told, she was dependent on Max for company, too. When he was away giving evidence in a foreign court, sometimes for weeks on end, the loneliness almost consumed her. During the day she could focus on work, supervising the team until Max returned, but at night there was nothing except an empty bed to look forward to. She still hadn't explored Paris, not properly, despite living in the city for eighteen months. Unlike London, where she could tell you every restaurant within a three mile radius of her house and probably more besides, here she only knew the large tourist places. Max rarely had time to show her around the city; she'd never met a busier man. She appreciated why he'd hired her, the job was impossible for him to do alone.

She was fond of her work, she had to admit. Especially on the days when she and Max worked together. They made a good team. The atmosphere when they cracked a case together could only be described as electric. She chuckled softly to herself. Fifty five years old and still getting a buzz from solving cases. These cases were different from anything she'd worked on before, though. The things she'd seen, the people she'd met… Although, like UCOS, there was still the same motivation to solve crimes for closure, for justice, even though sometimes, in the eyes of the public, there was more pressing work to be done.

She returned her thoughts to the fear that, before now, she had never really allowed herself to fully consider. If they split up, she had two real choices- either she started looking for a new job in the force and moved wherever that required her to go, or she returned to London. That thought filled her with dread. Yes, Gerry and Rob were there. Jack and Brian were there. Her mother was there. It made sense for her to go back, given that she'd lived there for the majority of her lifetime, but…she just couldn't bring herself to. The house that she'd been imprisoned in for over a week was still there. So were the men that had abducted her, although they were safely behind bars. They'd made sure of that. Not to mention that the team had resented her for leaving. They'd never said anything, but she'd seen it in their eyes. She didn't blame them. Why should she get a new life handed to her on a plate when Gerry and Rob had been through exactly the same thing? Even Jack probably deserved it more than her.

He'd loved France, because Mary loved it. They'd always planned to move to a little fishing village on the west coast after Jack retired, but Hanson had got in the way of that. She remembered that day as vividly as if it were yesterday. She had just been promoted to DCI, leaving Jack's team to head up her own. It was lunchtime, and she was sat in her new office, looking out of the window across the car park. In her peripheral vision, she'd seen a figure weaving through the rainbow of parked cars. She'd turned her full attention to the person, wondering why they were running. Initially she had assumed it was a criminal escaping from custody, but then she focused in, squinting from her seventh floor window. She'd recognised the long coat billowing out behind the man, she knew the Ford Focus he was climbing into. Jack. She instantly grabbed her own coat and marched out of the office at full pelt, driven by some kind of sixth sense that told her something was wrong. By the time she had reached the car park, he was already long gone. Later that day, she finally tracked him down to the hospital, and found him at the bedside of his beautiful Mary, weeping. Precisely a year and a day following that, Mary had passed away. She sighed to herself, closing her eyes in a silent moment of remembrance. The creaking sound of the front door opening disturbed her from her reverie, and she rose from the sofa to greet her partner. He'd been away in Germany for three days, and the loneliness had already begun to take its toll on her. She'd missed him.

"Sandra," he greeted her, placing his suitcase on the wooden hallway floor and holding his arms out for her. She stepped into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder as he placed a gentle kiss on her hair. "I've missed you." He whispered, inhaling the strawberry scent of her hair. "Likewise." She murmured, tightening her hold on him for a moment before letting go. They looked at each other teasingly before she gave in and grinned, leaning in to place a slow, tender kiss on his lips. He smiled, enjoying the moment before gently pulling away. "I'll cook dinner," he said, "My treat."

* * *

><p>It was two hours later, and the homely smell of Beef Bourguignon was filling the old Parisian apartment. She was sat in her favourite armchair, reading a French magazine which she still didn't fully understand, despite living and working in France for eighteen months. Max had tried to teach her the basics but had deemed her a <em>'cas désespéré'<em>- a hopeless case. The French language was a strange thing. The sound of Max's phone ringing somewhere in another room distracted her, and she heard him run into the bedroom where it was charging.

"Hello?" she heard him answer, slightly breathless. She could tell it wasn't anyone from work by the tone of his voice, plus the fact that he was speaking in English.

"Okay…why?" he sounded confused. She waited to hear more to guess who it might be.

"Oh I see. No, not at all, don't worry about it. You've done the right thing under the circumstances." Now she really was bewildered. She placed her magazine on the coffee table and wandered into the bedroom, where Max was sat on the edge of the bed, his phone still pressed to his ear. He noticed her presence and reached out his arm, indicating her to sit on his lap. She did so, worried about the frown on his face. She still couldn't hear the voice emanating from the phone, so she continued listening to Max's side of the conversation.

"How long will you be? I'll pick you up from the airport if you like,"

"Are you sure? It's expensive."

"Okay, we'll see you soon. Bye."

He ended the phone call, putting his phone on the bedside table with a sigh, and resting his head on her shoulder.

"What is it? Who are you picking up from the airport?" she asked, undeniably curious.

"We're going to have a visitor."

* * *

><p><em>For Beth xxx<em>


	2. Unfinished Business

_**A/N: I am technically 'retired' from writing fanfiction but this is unfinished business, so to speak. See chapter one for disclaimer.**_

She sighed as she sat down at the rustic oak dining table, waiting for Max to return. It felt strange, setting three places instead of two. Still, this whole situation was strange. It had been an hour since the phone call that had summoned her partner to the Charles de Gaulle. The phone call that had reopened the door inside her mind which, after two years, she'd finally managed to lock. Obviously, if it could be unlocked that easily, then it wasn't fully impenetrable in the first place. Even she would admit that to herself. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she noticed it was already half past seven; they would be here soon.

She rose from the ladderback chair, stretching wearily before crossing to the oven, carelessly catching her hip on the kitchen island. She leaned on the graphite surface for a moment, placing her head in her hands in a futile attempt to gather her thoughts, which were swirling around her head like an autumn breeze, whipping up a sea of russet leaves. Honestly, she'd thought it would be worse than this. She could have felt scared, anxious at the threat of a figure from her previous life entering her new one, but at present she felt…dazed. Like her limbs weren't connected to her body.

Truthfully, she'd known deep in her subconscious that something like this would happen. Some things were just too good to be true, and her adoring partner, beautiful home and thrilling job definitely fell into that category. Good things just didn't happen to her, and Fate had decided that the balance needed to be restored. Well, she doubted she would ever be ready, but she could handle it, surely. The scars of her past made her who she was today. Although she had an unnerving feeling that the past wasn't going to stay that way.

She stood up to her full height resolutely, ensuring her hands were steady enough that she wouldn't drop the steaming hot dish of beef bourguignon on its way out of the oven. As if on cue, she heard the front door open with its usual loud creak, and, a few seconds later, muffled voices in the hallway. She drew in a deep breath, gathering the courage she needed. Leaning down to remove the dish from the oven, she caught a snippet of the men's conversation.

"Here, I'll take that through to your room."

"There's no need, Max, I'll do it. I've caused you enough trouble for one day."

"It's fine, honestly. We're happy to have you. Come on in, you must be exhausted."

She placed the inviting dish on the work surface to cool, briefly closing her eyes before turning around to face the man in the doorway. It had been a year since she'd last seen him, and she remembered him as he was on that day at the pub, with Gerry: still mentally bruised from their ordeal, but disguising it well under a bright smile and warm laughter. The contrast to how he was today, stood in her doorway, was shocking. His shoulders was slumped dejectedly; his hair was matted from the heavy Parisian rain that was beating relentlessly on the window; there was a shadow of grey stubble forming on his face. She was still nervous about what news he possessed, but for now, her sympathy overwhelmed her and she ran to him, still with a tea towel in her hand, pulling him into an embrace.

"Rob," she whispered, simply as a statement.

"I'm sorry," he replied quietly. "I didn't know what else to do."

"It's alright," she affirmed, releasing him from her grasp. "As long as you're safe. Sit down, dinner's ready."

He smiled drowsily, happy in the knowledge that Sandra hadn't lost her maternal side. A quiet "thank you" was all he could summon.

Max clapped his friend on the back reassuringly as he sat at the dining table. "Don't let her take all the credit, I made it really," he joked, sitting down whilst Sandra brought the meal over from the kitchen.

"I could have quite easily let it burn, I deserve some credit," she returned, exchanging a look with Max that signalled they were both equally worried about their mutual friend.

"It looks delicious either way," Rob said quietly. His matchmaking had clearly been a success; Sandra and Max looked as happy together now as they had done when they'd first met back in London, over a year ago now. He sensed that time had passed more quickly for them than it had done for him, alone in his flat. Still, he could never spite them. Both of them had saved his skin over the years in more ways than either of them knew. He smiled as Sandra placed a warm, comforting dish of the French classic in front of him.

"Bon appetite," she said softly. "Or as us Brits would say, eat up!"

Both men chuckled as they all tucked into their meal, delighting in its warmth after what had been a long day for all of them. They enjoyed the companionable silence for a while, before Sandra broke the spell. She had to. She needed to know.

"Rob," she almost whispered. "Why are you here?

He placed his fork down gently, rubbing his tired eyes with his hands. He slowly sat back in his chair, drawing in a deep breath.

"It's Felsham."

"What about him? He's in prison." She asked, leaning closer to him.

"He's dead. Heart disease."

She took a moment to process the information.

"Isn't that…a good thing?" Max interjected cautiously. "I mean, not a good thing, but…what he did to you…"

"I know what you mean. It is good, in a way, but I still don't understand, Rob." She said slowly, attempting to summarise her thoughts.

"Felsham's solicitors sent me this, as requested in his will." He reached into his pocket, retrieving a slightly crumpled note. He passed it across the table for Sandra to read.

"We're not finished with you yet."


	3. Retracing Steps

_**A/N: Just a short one this time, I must admit that this is a bit of a filler chapter. Thank you to all who reviewed, your support keeps me going. See chapter one for disclaimer.**_

"Right. Let's go through this again." She prompted, a suggestion which was instantly met with sighs from the two men. They had retired to the living room, where Max was sat on the sofa and Rob in an armchair to the side, both facing her. None of them had bothered to light the fire, despite the draughty feel of the old apartment- all pretences of warm hospitality had been sacrificed in favour of the cold, hard truth.

"Sandra, sit down, please." Her partner pleaded wearily. She had been pacing around in front of the fireplace for the last twenty minutes, but she couldn't sit down. That would mean she wasn't doing anything, and right now there was a whole list of things that needed to be done.

"I'm sorry," she answered, noticing his tired eyes, "But I need to go through this, just one more time. Please."

He closed his eyes for a moment, summoning the strength to agree with her. It was nearing midnight, and all he wanted to do was sleep, if only to forget the living nightmare which Rob had brought to his doorstep, just for a few hours.

"Okay, but after this, we're going to sleep." He said, more firmly than before. She knew that he was worried about her, and so was Rob, but she couldn't sleep. How could she sleep when, for all they knew, someone could be watching them, right at this moment?

"Fine. Okay, so the note was delivered to you today, Monday the 21st, Rob?" She deliberately used his first name to draw him back into the conversation, noticing that he was lapsing in focus.

He nodded, eyeing her with concern. "Even though you were at work, we can assume that it came with your normal post because the envelope was stamped with the solicitors postmark and it contained a letter from the company explaining that this was a part of Felsham's will. For it to be made by someone else and hand-delivered they'd have had to replicate the postmark and the company's paper somehow, which is unlikely. You got home at about six, found the letter and opened it. Had you had any communication with that firm of solicitors beforehand?"

"Not that I'm aware of, but I've dealt with hundreds of solicitors and lawyers in my time, Sandra. There's probably records of them somewhere in my office but they're no use at the moment." He leant back, resting his head against the back of the leather armchair. He had no idea why he'd even thought to come here. Spontaneous decisions to jump on the first plane to Paris never ended well.

"Never mind. We can still contact them. Right. What did you do immediately after reading the note?"

"I was shocked, I just…stood there for a while, taking it in I suppose. I took my briefcase into the kitchen, got out my laptop and booked a plane ticket to Paris for the earliest flight." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "I really am sorry, honestly. I don't know why I came here. I'll get on the first flight in the morning, I promise."

"No, you did the right thing. And I'm not just saying that. Either you stay here until this is all sorted out or I come back to London with you." She said firmly.

"Sandra, are you sure that's a good idea? If you think people could be watching you here then it'll be ten times worse if you go back to London." Max suggested cautiously. He knew that trying to stop her when she had an idea in her head wasn't advisable.

"That's true, but if this is going to be sorted out then I'll have to run the risk. Besides, it's difficult trying to make enquiries from here, I don't have the correct databases or anything like that." She reasoned, leaning on the mantelpiece and almost knocking the photograph of her and Max off. She still wasn't used to having photographs around the house.

"I'll organise you some form of protection through our guys, surveillance officers, anything you need. Like you said, Felsham has people everywhere in the Met, and outside it. You can't trust anyone in the force."

"I know. Okay, so you packed a bag and went straight to Heathrow, right?" she paused briefly whilst he indicated in the affirmative. "Did you drive or take a taxi?"

"I went in a taxi, I couldn't be bothered with the airport parking. Why?"

"Did you speak to the driver? Did you tell him where you were going?" She questioned, moving towards him so she was practically looming over him in the chair, her breathing rapid.

"Sandra." Max almost growled, jumping off the sofa and pulling her away by her shoulders, turning her to face him so they were eye to eye. "You need to stop. You're being paranoid. Sleep. Now." He pointed aggressively to the door.

She stared at him for a moment, returning his anger with twice as much fire in her burning blue eyes. Neither of them blinked for a long, silent moment. Rob sat uncomfortably in his chair, not daring to move, for fear of the action breaking the deadlock between his two friends. He looked first to Sandra, then to Max, repeating the process over and over again as though he was watching some kind of bizarre tennis match.

Finally, as he had predicted, the blonde was the first to break. She turned suddenly, the blunt points of her hair slicing her face as her body whipped around and she stormed out of the room, slamming the door with a crash that startled both men from the silence that had encapsulated the room. But what startled Rob even more was the faint sob, originating from the woman he knew possessed incredible strength.


	4. In The Loop

_**A/N: You may (or may not) have been wondering where our favourite Cockney fits into all this. Well…**_

_Five hours earlier…_

The shrill noise of his phone ringing on the glass table next to his sun lounger disturbed him from his semi-slumber. He sat up, lifting his sunglasses to the top of his head and rubbing his bleary eyes. He picked up the phone, which reflected the evening sun into his face. Straining his eyes, he made out the name 'Rob' on the display and answered the call.

"Alright mate, what's going on?" The more his mind became alert, the more worried he was about this out-of-the-blue phone call. It had been four months since he'd moved away, and he'd barely heard anything from his friend.

"Gerry, sorry to disturb you. Erm…I'm on a plane. To Paris."

The older man paused for a moment, contemplating the statement. Paris meant Sandra, which meant something was wrong. Seriously wrong. Either that or he was about to propose to some poor woman at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

"Dare I ask why?" he replied.

"I got a note. It was from Felsham, he's dead. I just needed to get out of my house, and I thought I should tell Sandra, so I just got on the first plane, I don't know what the hell I was thinking, I just did it…"

Gerry sat up bolt upright in his lounger, raising his hand slightly to indicate that he was busy to pacify the woman next to him mouthing "Who is it?"

"Hold on, hold on. Calm down mate. How can you get a note from someone who's dead? More importantly, what did it say?"

"He requested that it be delivered to me in his will. It said "We're not finished with you yet."

Shit. Felsham had people everywhere, they all knew that. Bloody hell. Still, he was here, in Spain, and Sandra was in Paris with Max, and Rob was on his way out of the country, so surely they were alright, at least for the time being?

"Listen, you've done the right thing by getting out of London, that buys us some time. We all know what Felsham's like. Shall I come over? To Paris, I mean."

The brunette on the chair next to him shot him a glare. "Paris?!" she exclaimed.

"Ssh, just give me a minute!" he replied, "Sorry mate, go on."

"Maybe you should just wait for a bit, you're probably safer over there. Hopefully this isn't as bad as I'm anticipating, I don't know." He sighed, uncertain of what to suggest for the best. He couldn't help but to wish, selfishly, that it had been Gerry or Sandra who had received the note. They had so much more strength than he did.

"Yeah, you're probably right. If they find out we're all in Paris then we're buggered. Thanks for letting me know anyway, and keep me updated, yeah?" He was glad Rob had called him. He had a suspicion that if it was Sandra who'd received the note, she'd have kept him out of the loop to protect him. Or to avoid talking to Jeanette. One meeting was quite enough where those two were concerned. Well, he didn't need bloody protecting. He'd had more than his fair share of bad news and close scrapes in the past.

"I will do, although it'll probably be tomorrow morning. We can't really do anything until then."

"Alright. Safe flight, mate." He ended the call, placing his phone back on the table beside him and laying back in his lounger, clapping his hands to his sunburnt face.

"Who was that? What about Paris?" Jeanette said, standing over him with her hands on her hips. He loved the woman, but bloody hell could she make a racket.

"It was Rob. Strickland. The guy who I was abducted with."

"Oh?" She replied softly. It was rare that her partner spoke about the events of two years ago, and she didn't press him to open up about it. She'd made it clear from the start that their future was all she was concerned about; the past was unchangeable. She watched him as he thought carefully, framing his words for her ears.

"The man who orchestrated our kidnap is dead, but he requested in his will that a note be sent to Rob. It was delivered today. It said 'we're not finished with you yet'. So I suppose that means things might get dangerous, for us. Rob is on his way to Paris, to tell Sandra. It's best he gets out of the country. Felsham has people everywhere."

"Gerry…" she said his name as a statement, kneeling down beside him and pulling him into her arms. He resisted, but she tightened her hold.

"No," she whispered. "Just for two minutes, let me be the one to protect you."

* * *

><p>His tranquil state, unable to sleep but absorbed in listening to the gentle hum of the Parisian traffic, was brought to an end by the sound of footsteps on the creaky hallway floor outside his room. He'd never had chance to explore the city he professed to love, not really; that was one of his many regrets. Of course, he'd taken his ex-wife to the top of the Eiffel Tower, visited the fancy restaurants, had conferences on the twentieth floor of buildings overlooking the urban sprawl below, but that wasn't what he enjoyed. No, he liked the little cafes on backstreets, the antiques shops in the suburbs, art galleries.<p>

He noticed that the footsteps had stopped, right outside his room. Well, he mentally corrected himself, it couldn't really be called _his_ room. If all went to plan, he would be back in London in the next eight hours, according to the clock on his phone. It was nice, for the time being, not to be at home. If he really focused, he could close his eyes and pretend that he'd just popped over to see his friends as a little holiday, albeit a spontaneous one, and that all thoughts of Felsham were strictly resigned to the past. But that would be avoiding the inevitable. This was a problem that, for once, he couldn't just run away from.

He started slightly as a soft knock sounded on the door. He still didn't know for certain whether it was Max or Sandra; from the footsteps he would guess Sandra, but the old wood was so creaky it was difficult to tell. Reluctantly, he climbed out of the comforting metal-framed bed with its fresh cotton sheets, padding over to the door and pulling it open as quietly as he could. As he'd guessed, it was Sandra he found facing him. She was wearing a white dressing gown, the type found in hotels, but she was shivering nevertheless. The draught from the hallway indicated that the rest of the apartment was colder than the room he was occupying.

"Come in," he whispered, stepping to the side to let her pass. She nodded, biting her lip as though unsure of herself. He closed the door behind her and turned to watch as she walked over to the window, gazing out serenely over the small backyard belonging to the apartment. He sat on the bed patiently, knowing better than to rush her.

"You know, the view is better from the living room. You can see out onto the main road, and there's the boulangerie opposite. From here, you might as well be in London. Unfortunately Max has taken the front room for tonight." She said, still staring into the night sky, punctuated with both man-made and natural specks of light from buildings and stars respectively. He stalled, not quite knowing how to respond to her series of statements. Especially as he was unable to judge her facial expression.

"I'm sorry it's white." She apologised before he had formulated a response.

"What?"

"The room. It's white. It reminds me of the cellar. I thought it might remind you of it too."

"Oh." He didn't know what else to say- the thought hadn't even crossed his mind, surprisingly. Perhaps that meant he was finally getting over the trauma. He hadn't had any nightmares for a while either. Or maybe Sandra had been affected by it more than him. He doubted it, but he knew she could mask her emotions better than an award-winning actress. You could never really tell when it came to her.

They continued in silence for a while, both knowing that they had something they needed to tell the other yet unable to select the correct words in which to phrase it.

"Did Gerry sound like he was going to stay in Spain, when you told him to? You know what he's like."

"Um…yeah, I suppose. I didn't really tell him to, it was more of a suggestion to be honest. I was still in shock at that point."

"Oh. Hopefully if he does try to come over here, Jeanette will stop him. She seems sensible."

"Hmm." He had witnessed the meeting of Sandra and Jeanette, and it wasn't pretty. He had seemed to be the only one to realise that the two women were almost identical; not in looks but in personality. They descended into silence again, but this time it was even more uncomfortable.

"Sandra, I feel awful for asking this of you, but…" He paused briefly, deciding quickly that it was probably best to just come out with it. "I think I should stay here. If that's okay with you. And Max, of course."

She turned around for the first time since she had entered the room. The ironic smirk on her face unnerved him a little, but he kept eye contact with her. "I was going to suggest that too."

"Really?"

"Yes. I don't think it's safe you being in London. I know I was being paranoid earlier with the whole taxi driver thing but in the Met we definitely can't trust anyone." She admitted.

"You weren't being paranoid, you were shocked. I understand," he responded softly.

"I was. Being paranoid, that is. But thank you anyway."

He chuckled, just slightly, looking down at the floor. "Okay, you were. But I don't blame you."

They shared a small smile, blue eyes meeting blue. "Rob?"

"Yeah?"

"I know this sounds awful, but I'm glad we're in this together."

He nodded, understanding precisely what she meant.

"So am I."


	5. Waking Up

**_A/N: Another filler chapter. My writing bug seems to have disappeared and I'm away from Monday to Friday so I will either go back into retirement or burden you with pitifully slow updates. Sorry. _**

He tiptoed through the hallway on his way to the living room, unsure of who he would find. It was approaching nine, so Max should have gone to work. He wouldn't be surprised if Sandra was still asleep following the events of last night, but she would probably take the day off work. So, in theory, he should have the room to himself. He needed to call Gerry, to update him, but truth be told there was nothing to report. Sandra knew now, and the more they'd talked it over, the worse it had become. At least his initial reaction, although over-dramatic, hadn't been entirely in vain. He entered the room, quietly clicking the door shut behind him. Empty. He felt like a child who had woken up early at a sleepover, creeping around his friend's house. He sat on the armchair in the corner and scrolled to Gerry's name in his list of contacts, selecting the 'call' option.

"Mornin'," the Cockney's voice sounded through the phone.

"Morning. How are you bearing up?" he inquired, concerned about the rough, weary edge to Gerry's voice.

"I'm alright, thanks. More worried about you to be honest though, what happened last night. Is Sandra okay?"

He paused for a moment, internally debating whether to tell him the truth, and risk making him even more worried, or withhold it.

"She isn't, to be honest. She kept us up until midnight going through what happened again and again. She was getting really paranoid. Her and Max had an argument and she stormed off to bed in tears."

"Jesus. I thought she'd take it alright, but then again she probably didn't expect this, what with her perfect new life in Paris and all that. None of us did."

"Hmm," he mused, matching Gerry's contemplative tone. He couldn't help but to wonder whether Sandra's 'perfect life in Paris' was really so perfect after all. As if on cue, the door opened and the woman herself entered, silently sitting on the old leather sofa. She looked at him, her bright blue eyes ringed with smudges of black mascara that she hadn't had the energy to remove, contrasting starkly with the blotches of red from the previous night's tears. She looked a mess, but he'd seen her in worse states.

"Are you staying in Paris then?" He'd been so occupied with Sandra's unannounced entrance that he'd almost forgotten about his conversation with Gerry.

"Er, yes. For the time being, anyway. It's probably safer."

"You do right mate. Should I come over then? I can be there by tonight, I've got my stuff packed just in case." He suggested, somewhat eagerly.

He sighed. He'd been thinking about this, and what he was about to say sounded patronising, but he genuinely did want to protect Gerry.

"Maybe you should hold on, until tomorrow, just to give us chance to make some enquiries. I know it sounds like I'm deliberately keeping you away, but I just don't want you to do anything rash, that could risk your safety." He reasoned.

The long sigh from the other end of the phone revealed his frustration at being kept out of the loop, but deep down he understood. Both men were united in clinging to the hope that this would turn out to be nothing serious, and they could all just return to their normal lives.

"Okay. Just promise to keep me updated, yeah? Give my love to Sandra."

"Of course. Speak to you later." He ended the phone call, returning his eyes to the woman in question. They stared at each other uncomfortably for a long moment before he decided that small talk was probably a good way to start.

"Gerry sends his love."

"Oh."

The unnerving silence returned as she moved her eyes away from him and into the fireplace, filled with the dark remnants of the last fire that had been lit. He tried again. If they were going to resolve this problem, they needed to work together.

"Is Max at work?"

The reappearance of her worryingly ironic smile displayed that he'd obviously struck a nerve. It was probably the wrong one, but it was something, at least.

"You could say that." She spoke properly for the first time that day. Her voice was throaty, a little hoarse even.

"What does that mean?"

"He is at work," she spoke slowly, selecting every word with precision so it cut through the tense air like a blade. "But for the next three days, his work is in Germany."

"Oh." He responded simply.

"He left me a note, ironically. So thoughtful of him." She said, her voice still laced with sarcasm. She rustled the paper in her dressing gown pocket as she took it out and began to read it aloud.

"Sandra. I'm sorry, but I was called to Germany early this morning. There's a problem with the witness in the Adler case. It shouldn't take longer than three days, and in the meantime I've arranged 24 hour surveillance around the apartment. If you go out, there'll be people keeping an eye on you, just in case. I promise I will try my best to sort this out. I love you. Max. P.S- take the next few days off work." She finished, clearing her throat. She folded the paper in half, then into quarters sharply with her manicured nails and threw it into the fire with venom, condemning it to cinders the next time they lit the fire.

_**A/N: If you spotted the Sherlock reference you have my congratulations :D**_


	6. Reprieve

_**A/N: My apologies for the delay with updating this, it's been a struggle to get back into my ongoing stories after a few months, and this has been no exception. Anyway, back to our protagonists in Paris…**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own new Tricks.**_

"Sandra, do you not think we're overreacting, just a little?"

It had been just over two hours since she had entered the living room whilst he was on the phone to Gerry, and in that time, thankfully, she had returned to some semblance of the woman that he knew. She had showered, removing all traces of yesterday's make up, which had left heavy carbon black smudges around her eyes, darkly contrasting with her pale skin. She had even made him breakfast, despite his protests that he should do it, which were quickly quelled with her insistence that he was her guest. He supposed that the shower must have reinvigorated her, and he vastly preferred her being active, as opposed to the unnervingly motionless figure she had been the previous night, whilst she had stared blankly out over the Parisian cityscape, lost in her own thoughts and fears.

This sudden alteration in her attitude was why he felt bold enough to ask the question which he had been mulling over for some time now, ensuring that he had selected the perfect set of words from his vocabulary before broaching the subject aloud. They had each taken to looking out of the large window on to the street below at regular intervals, and so far had seen nothing suspicious, merely the surveillance that Max had arranged, which had arrived in the form of two male officers sitting in a blue Renault, people whom Sandra vaguely recognised. She was stood at the window when he asked his delicately worded question, her back to him as she conducted her routine glance up and down the road.

"I think we should go out," she announced, suddenly turning to face him as though she hadn't heard his question. "We need some bread and milk, and I haven't seen anyone acting suspicious, so…"

"Let's do it," he completed her sentence, perhaps more optimistically than she would have done, offering her a smile. She returned the expression, although with less enthusiasm, moving to retrieve her coat and bag from the hallway. He rose from the sofa, stretching slowly. The overly cautious side of him, the one that sounded uncannily like Sandra had done last night as she had frantically interrogated him about the note, told him that anyone who possessed even an ounce of common sense would conceal themselves if they were watching someone. They would try to blend in with the everyday shoppers and tourists, precisely so their targets _didn't_ see them. Wasn't that the whole point?

But, on the other hand, the only way they would find out if they actually _were_ being watched was to venture outside, almost acting as bait. If someone wanted to find them, or hurt them, then they would. He had to admit, he would feel more at ease if Sandra remained in the apartment whilst he checked that it was safe, but he could sense her growing claustrophobia and need for some fresh air. He was experiencing exactly the same, only with the added burden of feeling like an intruder in his friends' home.

"Ready?" she asked, peering around the door into the lounge. He nodded, picking up his phone from the coffee table and placing it in his pocket. Following her into the draughty hallway, he quickly put on his shoes, grabbing his jacket from the coat stand. All it contained was his wallet, filled only with a hundred pounds sterling; a useless currency in the capital of France. She opened the door, which led out on to a landing, with two more doors for the other apartments. She led him down the stairs and into the small entrance hall of the building, empty except from a couple of bicycles propped against a wall and a few old tins of paint in various hues.

They reached the door that would lead them outside, on to the busy street. It was a larger, heavier door than the interior ones, and fitted with a password lock for the safety of the residents. He wondered if it would ever be needed to protect him and Sandra. She had paused with her hand resting firmly on the door handle, having turned to face him with an expectant look.

"Are you alright?" she asked softly.

"Yeah, sorry. I was miles away for a minute there."

"I wish we were miles away," she mused. "Thousands and thousands of miles away."

"Me too. But we're here, unfortunately," he sighed. "Come on. Let's not delay the inevitable."

She slowly pulled open the large wooden door, blinking in the midday sunlight that greeted her. He followed her as she stepped on to the wide pavement, the sunlight immediately having the same effect on his eyes, as the door swung shut behind him, sealing him in the unfamiliar city. Evidently the flat had been relatively dark, and it almost felt like he had awoken from some sort of trance, after being enclosed within the confines of the building, overwhelmed by the powerful emotions of its residents, and the discomfort of his unexpected, unwanted reappearance in their lives. His arrival in Paris had only occurred yesterday, but already it felt like an age ago.

"Well," Sandra said, raising her voice a little over the noises of the city. "It's been fifteen seconds and no one has tried to kill us, so I think we're safe."

He smiled at the typical sarcasm of her statement.

"I think you're right."

* * *

><p>Both of them had benefited from their renewed liberty; a happy glow was returning to Sandra's demeanour and they had smiled more in the last hour than they had done since yesterday evening, relishing in the familiar comfort of their friendship, and the welcome discovery that eighteen months and the physical barrier of the English Channel had not diminished their camaraderie in any way.<p>

Yet, there was something restricting this quiet optimism. Although they had not encountered anyone who appeared out of the ordinary, on their short journey around a few small shops, they shared a lingering sense of uncertainty. It was clear that they'd overreacted last night, out of pure panic, but what were they to do now? This question surfaced to the forefront of his mind time and time again, as they sat opposite each other in a small yet crowded café, prolonging their time away from the apartment. As usual, it was him who broke the silence, to ask the questions that both of them were musing over.

"Sandra? What do we do now? Where do we stand in all this?"

She looked up from her coffee. "I don't know," she said quickly, before pausing, and returning to her thoughts, although this time she was formulating them for his hearing. "I mean…it's obvious that we panicked last night, and we haven't seen anyone suspicious today. I don't feel like I'm being watched, other than by those two," she indicated to the blue Renault that was now parked outside the café. "But if they haven't followed you here, then what are they doing now? They wouldn't have sent the note if they didn't mean business, and it wouldn't have been difficult to follow you over here. I just can't help feeling like I'm waiting for something else to happen. The note made a big statement, and now…nothing."

He nodded in agreement. "Exactly, it's just…strange. I can't even think of any enquiries that we could make. I was thinking about getting the note tested for fingerprints, but obviously they'd have worn gloves when they were writing and delivering it."

"Hmm," she sighed. "We could call the prison and the hospital where Felsham was treated before he died, see if he had any visitors."

"Good idea. You know how the note was delivered during the day yesterday, at some point before six? Maybe we should wait until then, to see if they make any more contact. Maybe they'll do something every twenty four hours?" he thought aloud, shrugging. "Just an idea."

"It seems plausible," she nodded. "We should go back to the apartment, maybe they'll deliver something when we're in. We could even get a look at them, or the surveillance could."

"Would they be that stupid?"

She too shrugged. "You never know."


	7. The Waiting Game

**_A/N: Sorry this has taken a while to update again but I'm back on track with it now so expect much faster updates! :)_**

The much-dreaded time of six o clock passed with a soft tick from the clock on the mantelpiece, much like every other second had done since they had returned to the apartment three hours ago. They were both sat on the sofa facing the clock, studying it intently, only daring to glance nervously at each other once fifteen minutes had passed, which somehow provided a clear sign that no contact was going to be made that day.

"This is ridiculous," Sandra announced suddenly. "We can't go on like this, constantly waiting for something to happen, hiding in here, watching our backs. Maybe it was just a hoax."

"You're right, it is ridiculous. I should have just stayed in London and made my own enquiries about it. I've brought you and Gerry into this for no reason. I'm sorry."

"No, you did the right thing. Whether we like it or not, this concerns us all. We were all in that cellar together, Rob."

He sighed. "I know. I just can't help feeling like I sparked things off between you and Max last night."

She chuckled, although her laugh was empty of humour. Nevertheless, she waved her hand as though the argument was already forgotten. "It doesn't take much to create an argument between me and Max, trust me."

"Are you happy though?"

She hesitated for a moment before nodding gently. "Yes. Let me make you dinner."

"Only if you let me help. Please."

"Alright."

* * *

><p>An hour later and they had settled down to eat. The three hours they had spent waiting for the note were weighing on his mind- they had called the prison and the hospital where Felsham had spent the past year and his final weeks respectively, but their enquiries had only created new questions. Felsham had altered his will from prison two months before his death, although they were still waiting to ascertain whether they would be allowed to see it, to establish how it had been changed. He was released on health grounds a week before his death, but he was incapacitated in hospital for the whole time. They'd discovered that he'd been visited weekly in prison by a William Harris, who claimed to be a family friend, and again in hospital by the same man.<p>

This had meant that they'd had to call the one person in London they could trust unequivocally- Brian. He was no longer a member of UCOS but, being Brian, he still had access to records. To put it bluntly, the conversation was awkward. Sandra hadn't spoken to her former colleague or his wife in months, and after the Anthony Kaye debacle, Rob wasn't exactly the Lane's best friend. Thankfully though, Brian had agreed to give them the information they'd needed once they had explained their predicament.

William Harris had a spotless record, other than a couple of parking tickets. He was married, with a young daughter, and worked as a plasterer and general handyman in the Bow area of London. He appeared to be just an average person, perhaps someone who had visited Felsham out of loyalty; the former DAC had been completely alone following his arrest and subsequent incarceration.

So all they could do now was wait.

"We should ring Gerry again, let him know what we've found out, and that nothing has happened today." Rob suggested over the soft clink of cutlery on the white ceramic plates.

"I should probably speak to him," she sighed, guiltily apprehensive. She and Gerry had barely made contact over the last few months, since he had introduced her to Jeanette when they had met up in Spain, where she and Max had been working on a case. She was certain that if they met in person, their friendship would resume as normal, just like hers and Rob's had, but it was actually making contact that was the difficult part. The longer you left it, the more awkward it got. Still, this was the least of their concerns at the moment.

"Has Max called today?"

"No. He knows when to keep his distance."

"Do you want him to call?"

She shrugged. "Not really. I've got more important things to worry about at the moment. Besides, I have you."

She stood up abruptly, walking into the living room to retrieve her phone, and continuing her path to the window as she waited for Gerry to answer, taking a look along the street below. He picked up on the second ring, unusually quickly for him, although she suspected that he had been keeping his phone nearby at all times, waiting for this moment.

"Hello?"

"Gerry, it's me."

"Have you got any news?" he asked bluntly, avoiding any formalities. She could tell just from his tone that he was tense, and she could imagine him pacing the room.

"We were expecting them to make more contact at six o clock, we thought maybe they'd make contact every twenty four hours, but there's been nothing. So now we think it might just have been a hoax." She paused for a moment, the silence uncomfortable as she waited nervously for his response. If it was a hoax, then she was glad, and Gerry would be too, but she felt bad for causing him all of this painful suspense. Her mind had been running wild with all the possibilities over the past few days, and she suspected that he had been suffering the same. Perhaps even more so.

"Right," he said vaguely, his voice distant.

"I'll let you know if anything happens."

"Yeah, thanks."

"I'll let you go then, you can tell Jeanette."

"Hmm. Sorry, I'm just a bit overwhelmed at the moment, all this, it's just…" he trailed off with a long, deep sigh.

"Yeah. It's certainly a shock."

The heavy silence returned again, the only sound she could hear being that of his steady breathing down the phone.

"It's good to hear your voice, Sandra. I've missed you."

"Me too, Gerald. Me too."

He chuckled softly. She was still the only person who called him Gerald.

"Night then. Sleep tight."

"Don't let the mosquitoes bite."


	8. False Hope

It was approaching one in the morning, yet still he couldn't sleep. Physically he was tired, but mentally he was wide awake, questions and fears and thoughts encircling his mind yet still with no progress to show for their efforts. He was lying on his side, facing the window, where the faint lights and noises of the city could be seen and heard through the thin cotton curtains, when he heard a noise from inside the apartment. Footsteps on the hallway. He quickly relaxed, dismissing the sound as Sandra finally retiring to her bedroom, until he released that the footsteps were growing louder as they drew closer to his room, much like they had the previous night.

Quickly adapting his theory, these new suspicions were confirmed when the door clicked open softly and she appeared, wearing the same white dressing gown. On tiptoes, she walked over to him gracefully, her light blonde hair and white apparel shining in the moonlight that was filtering through the window, bestowing her with a kind of angelic appearance to his ill-adjusted and weary eyes. He turned around to face her fully, propping his pillows against the headboard so he could sit up comfortably.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" she asked, her voice lowered to a whisper as she stood by his bed.

"No, not at all. I can't sleep."

"Me neither. I just can't seem to switch off my brain." She sighed, perching next to him on the bed.

"I know the feeling." He agreed. "I can't go on like this for much longer."

Remaining silent for a long moment, she studied him in concern, from beneath her heavy eyelids, blinking occasionally. Eventually, she leant into him, pressing her head against his chest where she could hear the rhythmic beating of his heart. He rested a hand gently on her waist, drawing her closer.

"Rob?"

"Hmm?"

"You know earlier, when you asked me if I was happy, and I hesitated? It wasn't because I'm not happy, it's just that…" she trailed off, sighing. "I sometimes wonder what things would have been like if I'd stayed in London, or I'd never met Max, or we'd never been abducted."

"What do you think it would be like?"

"I don't know, that's the thing. I suppose that we've made positives out of the whole experience. If we'd never been abducted then you'd still just be my boss, and we'd never have become friends. And I'd never have met Max. I'd still be in London, at UCOS, but what would it have been like? There'd have just been me and Gerry left, or just me if he'd have still met Jeanette, and I'd probably have gone for a promotion anyway, so UCOS would be…"

"Sandra." He cut off her musings authoritatively yet kindly. "You have too many ifs and maybes. Like you said, we've made some positives out of our situation, and you need to focus on those. You've got a great life here, by the sounds of it. A great partner, a great job, a beautiful home. It's no use thinking about an old life that isn't yours anymore."

"What if I want it to be mine again?"

He sighed. "Then make it yours."

This statement seemed to pacify her, however it was clear that he had only given her more to think about. They remained still, and comfortably silent, until his steady heartbeat lulled her to sleep, and the rise and fall of her breathing provided him with something continuous to focus on, distracting him from the tumult of his mind until he too slipped into a deep sleep.

* * *

><p>He awoke to gentle rays of sunlight streaming through the curtains, a glorious image in contrast to the rain that had plagued Paris on the night of his arrival in the city. This was only countered by the fact that his back was aching in protest at the uncomfortable position he had fallen asleep in, and the realisation that he had not awoken with Sandra beside him. Despite his painful back, he had slept well last night, and the rest had been much needed. Pulling back the white cotton sheets, he rose from the bed, stretching as he did so. He decided to make them some breakfast.<p>

In case Sandra had merely returned to her own bed at some point during the night, to avoid the back pain that he had developed, he crept through the apartment quietly. As he entered the open plan kitchen-diner, he noticed that the door leading to the living room was ajar, and peered around it. She was sat on the leather sofa, her head in her hands. His eyes were quick to perceive the only object that appeared out of the ordinary on the coffee table in front of her: a single sheet of paper. A note. Much like the one that he had received, the one that had provided him with a reason to come here.

"Sandra," he stated softly. Her head jerked upwards in surprise; he'd been so quiet that she hadn't registered his presence. He had expected tears to be falling from her bright blue eyes, yet there were none. However, her face was even paler than usual, and there was a tremor in her hands, which were now resting in her lap. He began to walk towards her, slowly at first but quickly gathering pace as his desire to comfort her, and his curiosity to know what the note said, consumed his thoughts.

"Sandra," he said again as he sat beside her, reaching his arm around her and drawing her close to him. "What is it?"

"It's from them," she whispered, clearing her throat. She relaxed against him for a moment, taking some strength from his hold, before leaning over to retrieve the paper from the cold glass surface and handing it to him.

He read it silently, feeling no need to reiterate what she already knew. Besides, the simplicity of the note made its demands perfectly clear.

'_We want €200,000. Put it in a bag and drop it in the bin next to the fountain in the Champ de Mars at two p.m. No police or this time you won't escape alive.'_


	9. Space To Think

The doors of the lift opened slowly and he stepped out on to the second landing of the Eiffel Tower, his skin immediately being stung by the stark gale, the piercing cold penetrating through his black coat. Although, the weather was the least of his worries- the last twenty minutes had being spent chasing Sandra through the streets of Paris during the morning rush hour. His heart was pounding rapidly, adrenaline coursing through his veins. She'd fled the apartment after they'd received the note, muttering that she needed some air, her mind clearly reeling from the shock. Frankly, he feared what she might do. He knew better than anyone that her frame of mind had been fragile recently.

He began to walk around the structure, frantically attempting to pick out Sandra's blonde hair and the white shirt and jeans she had hurriedly dressed in. Eventually he caught sight of her, obscured by a group of tourists who were milling around taking photos, despite the early hour. Much to their annoyance, he pushed his way through them until he reached the edge, moving to stand next to her.

"Sandra, there you are," he said, his breathing heavy. "I was worried sick."

"Sorry," she murmured, so quietly that it was barely audible against the force of the gusts and the chatter of the tourists behind them.

"Here," He moved to do the chivalrous thing; to give her his coat despite the icy wind that was stinging his cheeks. He'd expected it to be cold, considering they were over three hundred feet up, and it was early March, but not this bad. He could only wonder what it would be like on the third landing, the highest.

"It's alright. If you're going to freeze to death then I'm coming with you," she said darkly, gazing out over the vast city beneath them. He stopped, his quiet thankfulness that he hadn't had to remove his coat immediately overtaken by his concern for her. Standing beside her, he didn't have a clear view of her face, but he could guess her expression. The same blank-eyed stare she'd had the night before last, when she'd entered his room. She had chosen to come here, and he'd presumed the escape from the confines of the flat would make her feel better, but her grim words and her stony expression suggested it had produced the opposite effect.

"Hopefully neither of us will freeze to death if we go in the restaurant," he countered, gesturing to the glass panelled room behind them.

"Can we stay out here, just for two more minutes? Please," she asked, finally turning to face him.

"Okay," he sighed, unable to argue when confronted with her intense blue eyes, shining with water from the sting of the wind. He watched her as she turned her gaze back to the stunning vista, something that he'd been too preoccupied with her to even notice before now. It really was beautiful up here, observing the sprawl of the city beneath the monumental tower. Strands of her golden hair were being whipped against her face by the gusts and surprisingly, she didn't even flinch when he tucked some of the stray hair behind her ears.

"Beautiful isn't it?" she murmured after a few minute's silence had passed.

"Yes." He paused. "Sandra, we need to figure out what we're going to do. We don't have that kind of money available to us."

"I know. I think we'll have to involve the police, I don't see another way out of this. I wish we could just ignore it, but..."

"They'd kill us." He finished her sentence, instantly regretting his bluntness.

"In short, yes." Suddenly, she stepped back from the edge of the landing. Although her gaze was still firmly fixed on the city, something about her demeanour had changed- she was stood up straighter, and she seemed more focused. It was as though she was formulating a plan: perhaps his unintentionally direct approach had worked.

"Right," she announced, similarly to the way she used to call the attention of the boys as she stood in front of the whiteboard at UCOS, ready to introduce a new case. "It's now nine a.m. That means we have precisely five hours until they want the money. The Champ de Mars is that park down there, by the way, directly in front of the tower. So, you're going to go back to the apartment. You'll stay there whilst I go to the police and find the most senior officer I can. That way, if they are watching us, then they won't know who to keep an eye on. While you're waiting, you could check with the solicitors to see if they've decided to let us see Felsham's will. It might give us some clue as to who's behind this. I'll explain the situation to the police and tell them to organise plain clothes officers and an armed unit to surround the area so we can catch this bastard. All we need to do is to shove some paper in a bag and drop it in a bin. Plan?"

Somehow, he found himself chuckling as she finished detailing her strategy, and stood awaiting his response with a raised eyebrow. For that moment, she had been the Sandra he knew and admired: strong, determined and a bloody good police officer.

"It sounds good to me. But be careful."

"I'm always careful."


	10. The Unexpected I

The weather had improved drastically since that morning; Paris was now bathed in the first rays of Spring sunlight, and the gale had been reduced to a mere breeze. He could only hope that was a positive omen for what was about to come. It was fast approaching two o clock, and he was in the back of a police van parked a couple of streets away from the Champ de Mars. The sound of radio messages from various officers stationed around the park confirming that they were in position filled the small space, as he prepared himself for his task. Sandra's strategy had been a success; she had taken both of the notes to the police to prove her claim that they were being blackmailed, and that they were in imminent danger. His enquiries into Felsham's will, however, had been less fruitful. Although he was a DAC, he couldn't produce any reason to view the document that related to a current case, or at least any case that the Met was dealing with.

He had volunteered to be the one to deposit the bag which he currently held in his hands, a plain plastic carrier bag from a local supermarket, filled with decoy notes. It felt right that it should be him. A screen opposite him displayed a CCTV image of the park; the camera was poised to capture an image of whoever collected the cash from the waste bin, a piece of evidence which would be used in court. If it got to that stage. He had faith in the police, but after he and Sandra had foolishly been lured into a sense of false hope, he had learnt to expect the unexpected.

"Rob?" His musings were interrupted by Sandra's voice. He looked up to see that she was stood in front of him, accompanied by an officer, a tall olive-skinned man with dark brown eyes.

"Sorry, I was miles away then."

She smiled reassuringly, although there was concern in her eyes. "This is Lieutenant Henri Moreau. He's in charge of the operation. We've worked together before."

"Pleased to meet you," Henri extended his hand to Rob, smiling gently, yet somehow his expression remained one of seriousness, as though he were mentally recapping the plan for the operation. It was clear that Sandra trusted him, and he could see why.

"Likewise."

"You know what you have to do, Rob, it is straight forward." The French officer stated, his accent only slight. "Take the bag, drop it in the bin near the fountain and walk away. As soon as you reach the base of the Eiffel Tower, there will be officers waiting for you who will take you back to the station. The last thing we want is anyone following you. We will wait here and see if anyone arrives to collect the money. If they do, we will apprehend them. You have nothing to fear. Remember to act normally, and blend in with the public, just as though you are putting litter in the bin."

He nodded, remembering the occasion when he had been the one delivering that speech, years ago now, to a young woman who had been blackmailed for money. So this was how it felt, being on the other side. A victim rather than an officer.

"It's almost time, are you ready?" Sandra asked gently.

"Yes."

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "We'll get him, I promise."

"I know." He met her gaze. He wasn't sure whether he was just imagining it, but he thought he could see the same doubt reflected in her eyes. He ignored it, mentally shaking himself, clearing all thoughts other than what he had to do from his mind.

Standing up steadily, he opened the door of the van and stepped outside, his eyes struggling to adjust to the bright sunlight as he was suddenly immersed in the hectic crowd of shoppers and tourists. He walked to the end of the street and took a right turn, feeling as though he was being guided by something else other than his own volition. The chatter of the people, the smell of car exhaust fumes, the weight of the bag in his hand, everything seemed distanced from him. As he approached the Champ de Mars, Henri's instructions echoed in his thoughts. _Take the bag. Drop it in the bin. Walk away. _It was simple.

He was in the park now, he could smell the trees, he could hear children playing. He found the fountain quickly- it was the centrepiece of the open space, a small idyll amidst the bustle of the city centre. The sound of the clear water rushing from the jets and falling into the pool below relaxed him somewhat, as he walked over to the rubbish bin, doing his best to appear as though he was just another tourist.

_There. It was done. _He had placed the bag in the bin, and was now heading towards the tower, perhaps at a slightly quicker pace than most, but at least he was restraining himself from running to the safety of the officers waiting for him. Determinedly, he kept his vision focused on his goal, not bothering to glance behind him to see if anyone had retrieved the bag. After what felt like an age, he was greeted by two people, a male and a female, who introduced themselves as Majors Boucher and Rousseau, and escorted him to an unmarked car. They reached the station within mere minutes.

He was safe.

Yet, again, they had arrived at the same outcome, reduced to repeating the same thing that they had been forced to do throughout this whole situation- wait.

_**A/N: Ten super politics nerd points for you if you know who Major Rousseau is named after ;-)**_


	11. The Unexpected II

Sandra watched the screen linked to the CCTV camera intently, seeing Rob place the bag filled with decoy notes in the designated location. There was a long moment when he disappeared from the view of the camera and towards the tower, but soon enough, Major Rousseau's voice came through the radio, letting them know that he was safe, and on his way to the station. She breathed a sigh of relief, along with other officers who had joined her in the back of the surveillance van. Now came the most important part- detaining whoever arrived to pick it up.

She was seated directly in front of the screen, with numerous other officers stood behind her, also watching it fixatedly. The only person she had encountered before was Henri, who cast her a concerned glance every so often. It wasn't every day that a police officer was embroiled in an investigation, and until now, he had had no idea that she had been kidnapped in London. It felt like a whole new era had dawned since then.

The door to the back of the van opened suddenly, and she turned to look, in the knowledge that others would keep watching the screen. A familiar figure entered, a man of average height with dark hair and kind brown eyes- Max. He met her gaze somewhat sheepishly, considering what had happened the last time he had seen her, yet she could tell from his imploring stare that he was worried about her. She stood up and moved towards him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. It wasn't until now that she had realised how much she had missed him, how much she had needed him in this dark situation. He held her equally as tightly, placing a kiss on her hair as he breathed in her familiar scent.

"Sandra, I'm sorry," he whispered. "You needed me, and I should have been there for you."

"It's alright. It's not exactly been a barrel of laughs over here, and I don't want you to get involved with all this. You had to work, anyway, you can't just drop everything for me."

"I'm already involved. And I can, if I like. I got on the first flight back from Germany when I heard that you'd got another note, and you were planning all this. Is Rob okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine, he's just dropped off the decoy money and he's being taken back to the station, where he's safe. I'm sorry for pushing you away in the first place."

"It's not your fault. I promise I'm not going anywhere this time." He reassured her, placing another gentle kiss on her lips. There was a sudden flurry of activity from behind them, with radio messages being interchanged rapidly and some people leaving the van. They broke apart to find Henri looking at them urgently.

"Someone has just retrieved the money from the bin. The armed unit are on standby and officers are going to arrest them."

Sandra left the comfort of Max's embrace to rush back to the screen. "Do we have a picture?"

"Here," Henri gestured to another screen above, which displayed the grainy image of a man beside the bin. The face was indistinguishable, but he was clearly tall and slim. However, there was something about him, or rather, what was accompanying him, which was unexpected. He was pushing a pram containing a small child.

Henri noticed this at the same time as Sandra, and they looked at each other in confusion.

"Suspect has the money and is walking away but he's pushing a pram, sir, what do we do?" a panicked female voice came through the radio.

"I don't care whether he's got a pram, arrest him!"

The camera relayed an image of four officers bearing down on the man, whose stance turned to one of panic. He tried to run along the walkway but he was surrounded by the police officers, and the armed unit began to advance, priming their weapons.

"Stop!" Sandra yelled. "He's got a baby!"

There was a long, tense moment as the suspect realised it would be foolish to run whilst carrying a pram, and everyone paused. Slowly, he held up his hands in surrender, and she held her breath until the video displayed him being pinned to the ground and handcuffed, his pram and the bag taken by one of the officers.

"The suspect is detained, sir," a male voice this time.

"Armed unit stand down," Henri said into his radio device. "Suspect is detained. Put him in the car and take him to the station. Good work."

Sandra breathed a deep sigh of relief, although for her, the tension still remained. This wasn't what she had expected. Why did he have a pram with a child in it? Who was he? Why did he want the money? Why had he organised all this? She removed her head from her hands to find Max by her side, his arm placed firmly around her.

"We've got him, it's alright," he reassured her soothingly.

"But…" she replied feebly, unable to fathom her questions and distress into words.

"We'll find out soon enough. Come on, let's go home."

"No. I'm going to the station. I need to see him being interviewed, I need to find out why he did this, and I need to see Rob."

Her partner sighed, knowing that there was no arguing with her. She had a right to know.

"Okay."


	12. Answers

_**A/N: I'm not quite sure how the French judicial system works so apologies for any inaccuracies.**_

The air in the small room behind the one-way glass was stuffy, and the atmosphere was similarly tense. She found herself struggling to maintain her regular breathing pattern, and was instantly greeted with looks of concern from Max and Rob. It was only because Sandra and Max were members of the French police that they were allowed to witness this interview; under normal circumstances, they would be kept away. However it had become clear even before they had reached the station that this case wasn't as clear cut as it appeared.

Max was stood to her left, Rob to her right. She was holding both their hands when the door to the interview room opened with a gentle click, and the suspect entered, followed by a lawyer. He was as tall in person as he had appeared on the CCTV footage, although his skin was pallid, and he had the defeated, downtrodden aura of someone who had been pushed to breaking point. Each of them watched as the pair took their seats, the professional laying out a notebook and pen on the table with precision. As far as they could tell, the suspect said nothing. He barely moved, barely even flinched when the door opened for a second time. Henri and Major Rousseau were the officers who were conducting the interview, then- they were a good choice. Max had made it clear that he wanted the best officers working on the case.

The two officers took their seats calmly, adopting the façade that everything was normal, when, of course, for the suspect, it really wasn't. Henri leant forward, resting his clasped hands on the table as he set the tape to record and dealt with the formalities of the interview procedure. It was already apparent that he would be the one to lead the interrogation; Rousseau was still reclining in his chair, although he was eyeing the suspect intently.

"William Harris," the Lieutenant opened. "At five minutes past two this afternoon you were arrested after retrieving money that had been deposited in a bin in the Champ de Mars just five minutes previously. Do you understand why you were arrested?"

Sandra sighed, putting her head against the glass with a small bump. "He was under our noses the whole time," she whispered in despair. "He was the family friend of Felsham, who visited him in prison."

"Shh, we've got him now, Sandra." Max squeezed her hand, as she directed her attention back to the interview unfolding before their eyes.

"Yes," Harris said quietly, staring down at his palms under the piercing gaze of Rousseau.

"Would you like to tell us why?"

"For blackmail. I was the one who sent the notes. I told them to bring the money."

"And why did you do that?" Henri's tone had turned slightly more gentle- this was proving easy, almost too easy. But why go to all this trouble only to confess so readily once caught?

"I needed the money. Desperately."

"Why's that?"

"To get treatment for my daughter. Will she be taken away?" he looked up for the first time, his desperation apparent in his frightened demeanour.

"Perhaps. Why does she need treatment?"

"She has an extremely rare bone disorder. She needs treatment which can't be funded on the NHS in the UK, or by any other way, apart from paying for it myself." He paused, resting his head in his hands. "The total cost is €200,000."

"Couldn't you get the money through a loan, perhaps, or a charity?"

"No. I can't afford to take out a loan, we're behind on our rent, we live in a one bedroomed flat in Bow. I'm struggling to find work. We tried charities and raising funds ourselves but it didn't work, we only got a few thousand."

"Surely you could have found some other method apart from crime?"

"No! You don't understand. If she doesn't get the treatment soon she'll die, she's running out of time. Where is she? I want to see her, I need to give her medicine."

He was clearly growing increasingly agitated, his eyes wide and his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. An unspoken strategy was formed between the two officers that they would try a different line of questioning.

"Tell me, how do you know Mr Felsham?" Rousseau asked casually.

"He's a family friend, I've known him since I was a kid."

"You visited him in prison, and in hospital shortly before he died, correct?"

"Yes."

"Were you upset when he passed away?"

"Yeah. But he was old, it was only to be expected."

"We have evidence to suggest that Mr Felsham changed his will shortly before he died. Were you aware of this?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Harris remained silent.

"We have a copy of Mr Felsham's final will here, as evidence 7H," he produced a single document sealed in a transparent plastic bag. "And also a copy of the will as it was before it was changed, as evidence 7I. Now, Mr Harris, do you notice what has changed between the two?"

The room fell silent as he read the two sheets, although it was clear that he had no need to read them. He knew exactly what the difference was.

"I was cut out of the will."

"Yes. And exactly how much money were you going to receive before this alteration occurred?"

"Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. The whole of his estate."

"Enough to pay for your daughter's treatment, and more besides. Enough to pay your rent, clear your debts."

"Yes."

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. "If only we could have seen the will," Rob murmured. "We would have known."

Henri left the silence just long enough to discomfort Harris before resuming the interrogation.

"Did you find out about this before Mr Felsham passed away?"

"Yes."

"What did you do, when you found out?"

"I went to see him in hospital. That was the last time I saw him. I asked him why he'd done it. I said he'd practically sentenced my daughter to death. I called him a murderer."

"And why had he done it?"

"He said that I'd betrayed him, that I didn't deserve his money. When he kidnapped those people, those police officers, he wanted me to be the one to abduct them, to keep them locked in a cellar. I refused. It's my fault really. I'd have kidnapped a thousand people if it would save my little girl, my Rosie. He was my last hope, the only person I knew with money, and I blew it."

"How did you get the idea to blackmail the people who had been kidnapped?"

"I was desperate. And I hated them for getting out alive while Rosie was getting worse and worse. I figured they must have some money, being police officers, so I tracked them down from news stories about the kidnap. It was easy really. I sent the one who lived in London the first note and followed him here to Paris."

"You've been saying 'we' throughout this. Does Rosie's mother know about this?"

"No. I told her I was going to find some money but she has no idea about the blackmail. Honestly. I needed to keep her out of this so if it all went wrong…Rosie would still have a parent. You've got to let me see her, please. I need her to know that I'm not a bad person, I just wanted to help her."

"I can assure you she's in safe hands, Mr Harris, and we will reunite her with her mother as soon as possible. But I'm afraid in the meantime you'll be kept in a custody cell, until your bail hearing."

Harris nodded, silent tears falling from his eyes.

"Tell her I love her. And I'm sorry I couldn't save her."


	13. The Right Result?

A brand new day dawned over Paris, the sky a vast expanse of clear blue, unbroken except for faint wisps of white cloud. She was seated at the dining table, a steaming mug of coffee lying untouched in front of her. Max had gone to the station, partly to complete some paperwork but mainly to check up on Harris, and to ascertain whether there was any progress with the situation. Rob was still asleep; all three of them had returned to the apartment following the interview and fallen straight into a troubled yet much-needed sleep.

They hadn't really had chance to talk much yesterday, which was probably why she felt so distressed this morning. Yet she knew that both men shared her feelings- they had caught the culprit, but it didn't feel like the right result. Harris had done terrible things, but were they justified? And what would happen to the little girl? They had spent this whole week with so many unanswered questions plaguing their thoughts, and this had just created more.

"Morning," a soft voice broke her out of her reverie.

"Sleep well?" she replied, as Rob pulled out a wooden dining chair and sat opposite her. He appeared refreshed, rejuvenated, but like her, she could sense that he was troubled.

"Not too bad, thank you. I think I needed it after everything that happened yesterday."

"Yeah, me too. Coffee?"

"No, thanks. I've just booked a flight back to London for tomorrow morning, it was the earliest I could find. I hope you don't mind me staying another night?"

"Not at all, it's fine. You can stay as long as you like," she smiled.

"Thank you, I appreciate it. "

They descended into a companionable silence for a while, Sandra finally taking a long sip of her rapidly-cooling beverage.

"I called Gerry, by the way, first thing this morning," she announced, breaking the monotony of the ticking clock, which was echoing around the large space.

"How did he take it?"

"Relieved that we caught him and put a stop to all this, but…he thinks the same as us really. It doesn't feel right that Harris should be punished for trying to save his daughter. It's certainly not what any of us expected."

"Hmm. It's a difficult situation. If only we did have enough money to pay for the treatment," he mused.

"I wonder what will happen to her? Surely someone, somewhere, can pay for it?"

"Hopefully. Maybe now that it's been brought to the attention of the authorities, someone will pay for it. Have they set a date for the bail hearing?"

"Not yet, Max has gone to try and find out. I hope he gets bailed, but even so, I think he'll have to stay here in France. Unless they can persuade the UK courts to take the case."

"I hope they do, it would be a lot more convenient."

"Me too. It would be nice to go back, even if it's for the wrong reasons. I still feel like a visitor here, sometimes," she confessed.

"We should go explore the city," he suggested, to be met with a confused look from the blonde opposite him. "It's my last day here in Paris, and it might help you to get a bit more acquainted with the place if you visit things other than the tourist destinations."

She shrugged. "Alright. Seeing as we're not being followed anymore, we might as well make the most of it. Just give me a while to get ready."

He nodded, allowing an optimistic smile to cross his features. It may be the wrong result, and it certainly wasn't over yet, but for the moment, they could begin to relax again.

* * *

><p>They arrived back at the apartment at six o clock, immediately being greeted by the welcoming scent of Blanquette de Veau, a veal ragout which was one of Max's speciality dishes. They had explored the Little Japan area, lunching at a tiny yet exquisite little café, then taken a stroll around the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont before returning to the flat using a complex route which included as many little side streets as possible, perfect for allowing them to build up a picture of the real Paris. Although the plight of Harris had been in their thoughts, they hadn't really discussed it much; both of them shared a desire to at least attempt to move on.<p>

Hanging their coats on the stand in the hallway, they headed directly into the living room and sat on the sofa wearily, worn out from their day of walking. Max entered with two large glasses of a deep red wine, which they accepted gratefully, and kissed Sandra on the cheek before relaxing in the armchair to their right.

"Dinner will be ready soon, about fifteen minutes," he said, smiling at his partner. "Have you been up to anything much today?"

"We've just been exploring really, we went to the Little Japan area and walked around the park for a while," she explained. "It's been nice to see more of the city."

"I do love it here," Max said thoughtfully.

"Is there any news about Harris?" asked Rob, not wanting to delay the inevitable.

The other man nodded. "They've set the date of his bail hearing for five days' time, and they've paid for his wife to fly over and take their daughter back to London. They're making enquiries about whether the UK courts will take the case, it looks promising as you're all UK nationals."

Both of them sighed with relief. "I think that's the best we could hope for, to be honest."

"Yeah, I'm glad." Sandra smiled softly. "I think he'll get a lighter sentence, considering the circumstances. It was a desperate measure."

"He's behaved well in custody so far, so that's in his favour too. And his previous good record." Max added. The three of them exchanged smiles, optimistic about what the future would hold.

"It looks like everything could turn out alright."


	14. Farewell

His final day in the French capital dawned clear and fair, much like the previous day. It was a Sunday, so both Sandra and Max were able to accompany him to the airport, to see him off on his 9.30 flight to London Heathrow. He had mixed feelings about leaving; a part of him wanted to return to London as quickly as possible, to put all this behind him and resume his dull yet familiar position in the Met. Yet another part of him wanted to stay here, to start a new life in Paris, just as Sandra had had done, to escape the bureaucracy of the police force and the loneliness of his bachelor pad. He tried his best to dismiss that tempting idea. Anyway, it was too late for that now- an announcement came through the PA system that his flight was boarding. It seemed disappointing, somehow. He'd been through so much with Sandra over the past week, but now he had to return home, just as though he'd come over for a holiday.

He sighed, standing up slowly. Both of his companions mirrored his action, chuckling when none of them could summon the words to express what they wanted to say.

"So, this is it then," Sandra summarised, a sad smile crossing her features.

"For now," he replied, the same expression mirrored on his face. "If the case is handed over to the UK courts, then you can come and stay with me for as long as you like, both of you."

"Likewise, if it stays within the French system," Max promised.

"Thank you. I honestly don't know what I would have done with you."

Sandra beamed at him, yet there were tears forming in her eyes. She flung herself into his arms, holding him tightly. He watched Max chuckling in front of him.

"I'll go get us some coffee," he suggested awkwardly, yet there was a smirk on his face. "Have a safe flight home, Rob. And thank you for looking after Sandra when I wasn't there. You're a good friend, to both of us."

He nodded. "Thank you. Anytime." He looked on as Max walked away, disappearing into the throng of people. The airport was busy, the morning rush not quite over yet, although the sunlight streaming in through the large windows made the space feel airy and calming. Sandra had pulled away from him, and was watching him intently, a serious expression on her face.

"What is it?"

"Sometimes I think I want to come back to London with you, but most of the time I want to stay here. I don't know what to do, to be honest."

He sighed, momentarily closing his eyes. He was tempted, but it just wasn't the right thing to do, at least not for her. "I'd love you to come back, Sandra, but I honestly think you should stay here. You've got a great partner in Max, a brilliant job doing what you love and getting to travel the world, a lovely home…I hate to say this, but there's nothing for you in London. UCOS isn't the same, you wouldn't be able to see Max very often, the Met is as bureaucratic as ever, I mean…"

"You're right," she nodded, the debate that she was currently conducting inside her head appearing to be swayed by his words.

"And hopefully we'll all be able to keep in touch better from now on, you, me, Gerry and the Lanes."

"Yeah, we should make more of an effort. Anyway, it's not as if I'm in Australia, just a short hop across the Channel," she smiled ruefully.

"Exactly. Anyway, I'd better be going," he said as another announcement that his England-bound flight was boarding sounded throughout the airport.

She pulled him into another tight hug. "I'll miss you."

"Me too."

"Safe flight."

"Thank you." Despite his desperation to prolong the moment, he released her. He had to leave now, or he'd never go.

"Bye," she whispered simply, the tears returning to her eyes, exaggerating their already captivating blue.

"Bye," he replied quickly, before his voice cracked. He picked up his suitcase and turned away, walking towards the departure gate and only looking back when he was just about to disappear through it. Sandra was stood with Max, holding hands. They both waved, smiling. A final farewell from France.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Sorry this isn't to my usual standard- it was one of those chapters where you can envisage it in your head but can't find **__**the words to portray it on the page.**_


	15. Epilogue

Although two hours had passed since the usual evening rush hour, the London roads were still heavily congested, and Robert Strickland was one of the hundreds of people stuck in the midst of the gridlock. He'd been waiting on the same dual carriageway five miles from his home for twenty minutes now, barely moving a metre for every sixty seconds. This unexpected tedium had gifted him with time in his hectic day to think. Whether this was a positive thing, he was uncertain. The main thing he mulled over was that it had been almost two years to the day since he had first received that note, and almost five years since he had been kidnapped, along with Sandra and Gerry. The facts made him feel pensive- so much had happened since then, so much had changed.

He lightly exerted pressure on the accelerator to close the gap between himself and the car in front before braking, and reclining slightly in his seat. It had all started with the kidnap. Maybe if they had never been kidnapped then UCOS wouldn't have investigated that particular case that led him to introduce Max to Sandra, and maybe they wouldn't have moved away together, and maybe if he hadn't got the note they wouldn't be engaged? If Sandra hadn't met Max then she wouldn't have moved away and then he would have never met Sasha through work? If Gerry hadn't been kidnapped then he wouldn't have gone on that holiday to Spain and he would have never married Jeanette?

Anyway, it was useless thinking about that now. Everyone was happy, weren't they? Good things had happened because of a bad thing. He should be thankful for everything he and his friends had, but…somehow it wasn't right. He turned his thoughts to Will Harris and his wife, as he often did. The trial had taken place eight months after he had returned to London, in the UK courts. His daughter, Rosie, received the treatment she needed, however it had only served to extend her life, rather than save it. She passed away a week after the trial began. They agreed that it would be vastly unfair to press charges against him, and so the case was dropped, and he began the long path to rebuilding his life.

He sighed heavily, leaning his head against the side window of his silver Mercedes. The traffic ahead was beginning to clear. He wanted to get home- Sasha would be wondering where he was, and he had grown weary of this useless thinking.

* * *

><p>A while later, he pulled up outside his home, a modern semi-detached house on the outskirts of the city. He was pleased to see the lights were on, and the faint smell of Sasha's cooking was emanating from the first floor window. He was glad to have her in his life; she understood the demands of his job, so their working relationship had not been an issue, and he adored her children. There had been some jibes at first, mainly from Steve and Gerry, about how similar she was to Sandra. They were both blonde, feisty, strong women. Maybe he had been looking for someone like Sandra at first, but now he knew that, for him, nobody could replace Sasha.<p>

He admitted himself into the warm house and quickly closed the door behind him, shivering in the cold of the evening. Removing his coat and leaving his briefcase in the hallway, he headed straight for the kitchen, where the welcoming smell of pasta was the strongest.

"Something smells good,"

"Hmm, lasagne. It'll be ready in ten minutes. Good day?" she asked, turning to face him with a wooden spoon poised in her hand.

"Not bad, long though. Sorry I'm late."

"It's fine, I understand." she smiled knowingly.

"How about you?"

"Yeah, good. The boys are up to their usual antics but it's nothing I can't handle,"

"Anything I should know about?" he smirked, leaning against the worktop.

"Nope," She grinned. "Oh, by the way, there's a letter for you, it's on the table. It's handwritten."

His blood ran cold for a split second, remembering the day two years ago when he had returned home to find a handwritten note on his doormat. A note that had changed everything. But he quickly relaxed. It couldn't be. Nonetheless, he swiftly retrieved the letter from the dining table and slit open the envelope, pulling out the small square of card inside.

'_Sandra Pullman and Max Clement invite you to their wedding; Tuesday, June 18__th__, at the Luxembourg Gardens, Paris.'_

"What is it?" Sasha asked vaguely as she set the table for dinner.

"A wedding invite, Sandra and Max's wedding. June 18th," he smiled, relieved.

"A summer wedding in Paris, wow." She smiled. "It'll be a nice holiday for us all."

"Yeah, although I think we might have to close down UCOS for a couple of days seeing as there'll only be one person actually there," he laughed.

"That's true, although knowing Diana, she'll still find some work to do," she chuckled. Diana was Gerry's replacement; he had left soon after Sasha had taken over the team, and she had been keen to find a female retiree to join the team. Everyone got on well with her- she was hardworking, dedicated to the job and had a talent for spotting clues in the most mundane of places, much like Brian had done. The team still consulted Brian on the odd case, which had mutual benefits- he had proudly adopted the famous title of 'consulting detective' and they got the information they needed.

"It wouldn't surprise me. I'm looking forward to seeing everyone."

"I've never actually met Sandra, do you think she'll…"

He grinned. "I think you two will get along like a house on fire."

He had been right to dismiss his earlier thoughts. He was happy. Everyone he loved was happy.

The torment that John Felsham had caused was over, for good.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Thanks to all those who've read and reviewed this story for your support, apologies it has taken so long to finish! Sorry to those of you who wanted this to end up as Sandra/Strickland, but truth be told, I never intended it to end that way. I wasn't going to include Sasha to be honest but I thought I'd be kind and give our Rob a happy ending after everything that he's been through! Thanks again, Eden xxx**_


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